The Day I Stopped Thinking Vulnerability Was a Weakness

During my second year of grad school my classmates and I were each assigned Chekhov short stories to memorize and perform. Though I was well-versed in plays like, Three Sisters, Uncle Vanya, and the Cherry Orchard I didn't realize the writer and medical doctor had also compiled such a prolific list of short stories. In fact the piece I was assigned, In the Graveyard became, and remains, my favorite short story of all time. 

http://www.online-literature.com/anton_chekhov/1120/

For weeks before our performances I felt incredibly self-conscious about my progress as an actor. It seemed everyone in class was having these remarkable breakthroughs. Their diction had improved, they were more honest on stage, and the work more polished. What did everyone do over the summer? I thought. Just a few weeks before I'd prided myself on being the hardest working actor in school.

When it was finally my time to perform I did something I never do and haven't done this. I "phoned it in." I knew I had a few skills at my disposal and could make it look as though I was invested in the story. I even duped a few but not my mentor. After class she stopped me on the corner of 116th and Broadway and told me, "You were way out of line. I want to see you this evening." My heart sank. I'd not only let myself down but someone I really admired.

That evening in the basement of Schapiro Hall we worked on the piece for over an hour. She tried desperately to get me to understand the people in the story were living breathing human beings who faced insecurities, mortality, fear, and discomfort just like me. She stayed on me like a hawk until out of nowhere I broke down. "Do you want to continue?!" she asked. "Yes," I said. I finished the story when she pulled me aside. "That's what I was looking for. Now, do you see just how great you can be?"

I nodded my head and understood the work suffered because of my fear to be vulnerable. At 26 I thought it was a weakness. That evening I realized it was a strength -- that there's profound courage in being open.

Unfortunately, people, particularly men, are conditioned to believe it's a liability. But I've discovered not only does being vulnerable forge trust but it also gives other people solace, while empowering them to talk be more open about their own fears. When everything is laid out on the table a community of authenticity takes shape and remarkable things can begin to happen. 

If You Can Learn One Thing It's Worth It

There were times during drama school where many of classmates and I felt as though we were being trained by the Marine Corps. "They break you down so they can build you back up."

As a young actor eager to please his instructors and make strides in developing his craft as a storyteller, I took nearly every critique of my work to heart. And because many of my instructors were well-respected mentors I looked up to and trusted, I treated their words as law.

But as I got older and developed a greater understanding of the world, myself, and myself in the world I realized the importance of sifting through feedback. I learned to hold onto ideas that worked for me, while discarding the ones that didn't. 

In the end, I decided to take criticism without getting defensive. Instead, I convinced myself feedback was worth listening to (from people whose opinion I valued) if I could gain just one new nugget of wisdom. I understood that one new valuable insight could change a great deal for the better.

Different Kinds of Passion

It's common for the things you value in life to change as you get older. There are a variety of factors that can influence such changes: new life experiences, evolving perspectives, or a shift in priorities.

Still, much remains the same including what fuels our deepest desires and core objectives. For me, passion comes to mind.

When I was a young actor in New York I had it in spades. I'd arrive at the theater at 5:30 am ready to work before teachers and classmates sauntered into our little black box theater.

As I've gotten older, I realize that it's not that I no longer have passion, but that the role it plays in my life is at times different. In my youth of youths it was a chest-thumping, fiery, somewhat one-dimensional part of me.

Now, it can still inhabit those qualities but I find it's more grounded. Passion to me now acts as more of a compass steering me silently towards my goals.

Both work. Just differently.